Seasonal
by littlexkiller
Summary: This story centres around the women of Baker Street. It begins with a well-meaning call at 2am; but as time passes and promises are made, life becomes more difficult than first anticipated. You can leave crime, but crime won't leave you.


"John!" Sherlock yelled, his voice echoing through 221B Baker Street.

"What is it now, Sherlock?" John grunted as he dragged the groceries half-heartedly up the stairs. "John, I'm bored..." Sherlock whined piteously.

"What do you want me to do about that?"

"Is there anything in the newspapers?"

"Nope. Unless you fancy a civil case between two CEO's with too much money."

"ABC News?"

"No."

"_Twitter_?"

"You know how I feel about hashtags."

"Yes, well I suppose trends aren't really your thing."

He made it a point to stare at John's coffee-brown cardigan.

"What am I to do...?" the mastermind moaned dramatically, flinging an arm over his eyes. John suppressed the urge to roll his own. "We'll find something," the smaller man promised.

"I think I'm dying, John. Look at my hands – they're shaking. That's a symptom of at least 30 fatal diseases-"

"Oh shut up and read a book. There are hundreds in here, probably thousands, and I promised Mary a date night - which I will be late for if I don't shower right now."

"Bye."

Moments later John reappeared in just a towel, looking slightly miffed. "Uh, Sherlock..." he began in a calm tone, "why is there a _whopping big crocodile_ in the bathtub? Didn't you think it would be, you know, a safety hazard?"

The detective shrugged at him nonchalantly, mumbling something about collecting data on its average digestion period before carrying the sedated adolescent reptile into the living room. John didn't bother asking how he'd gotten a crocodile into England. Dedicating a moment of thought to consider how Mrs Hudson would react, Sherlock decided that she probably wouldn't mind.

Mary checked her watch for the third time in a minute, bouncing on her toes impatiently in front of the overly posh French restaurant they'd agreed to meet at. Eventually he half-limped, half-ran across the sidewalk to smother her in a warm hug, light from the restaurant window softly illuminating his kind features. Even after all these years, his old injury plagued him, although admittedly with less ferocity. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Mary shushed him with an understanding finger and pulled her feather 20's-style shawl around her before heading inside.

"Why are you late?"

Her voice was like a snow storm; burning cold and unpredictable. It made him uncomfortable when she got like this.

"We haven't had a case in a month. A week, fine. Two weeks, that's plain uncomfortable. But it's never been this long."

Mary nodded before quietly ordering the cheapest thing on the menu and a bottle of wine, both of them choosing to ignore the judgmental glances from the rich family sitting next to them. They ate silently and left.

It was around two o'clock in the morning when Mary snuck out to the balcony from beneath the elaborate layering of quilts that was their bed. Irene picked up the phone within two rings, as per usual. The woman's icy purr made Mary draw her nightgown closer around herself.

"Why, Mary Morstan – how's my favourite piece of blonde ambition?"

"How modern of you, Irene. It's bloody cold outside and Johnlock need a case pronto."

"Well, no worse than usual on your front. But I can't believe we're calling them that now. Especially you, as John's wife."

"He's my husband, actually. There's a difference. And I can't believe you _aren't_ calling them that – the only person who ships them harder than we do is probably poor old Mrs Hudson."

"An excellent point. Although I do mildly ship Sherlock with myself."

There was brief quiet on the line, nothing to be distinguished other than soft breathing and silent agreement.

"What should we do?" Mary asked quietly. There was silence for about a minute until she heard Irene laugh in her elegant and untouchable fashion.

"Why, I say we call the ladies and give... _Johnlock _something to chew on for a while."

A grin spread across the ex-agent's face.

"Will it be legal?"

Irene's laugh sounded once more, like pouring cold water into a crystal glass.

"Dear, you know by now that I have no taste for widely-agreed societal restrictions."

"So we're _literally giving_ them a case. Us, breaking the law?"

"Think of it as misbehaving. Nothing more than a reprimand and a good spanking as a consequence. I doubt you'd mind the latter either."

"You haven't changed a bit, it seems. Well, talk soon. My side of the bed is probably getting cold."

"Talk soon, dear."


End file.
